Constellations
by amelieor
Summary: He told her once that they could draw their own constellations in the sky, a pattern to tell their story.


Constellations

"_We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us_

_are looking toward the stars."_

_ Oscar Wilde_

The stars always seem to shine brighter when he is alone.

It is as if they know that he is cold and lonely, and twinkle and burn just to spite him. The sky is clear, unobstructed by cloud or marred by the traces of civilization that are so often evident. There is no escaping the gaping abyss that is the night sky, nor those little diamonds that he wants to pluck clean from their places.

When he was a little boy, he would sneak out at night, careful to slide the door open only a crack so his aunt would not awake from the noise of plastic grating against metal, and sit out under the tree on their perfectly groomed lawn. He would lie on his back and squint up at the stars, cocking his head to the side to see the different constellations. He could never remember them all; he could vaguely recollect that the Little Dipper – or was it the Big Dipper? -- was part of a bigger constellation that took up half the sky, and that Orion's Belt was also just a few stars making up of something else, but that was all he knew.

It didn't really matter, not back then, that he didn't know the patterns in the sky or the stories that linked to them; they were an element of hope, a reason for him to keep looking up for a better life. The stars were something pure and free, something that no one could ever control or remove from the sky. The stars were everything he wanted to be.

He spent countless sleepless nights gazing up at the little pinpricks of light, lost in whimsical ideas that they were shining for him, and that their flickering was really their version of a wink, directed down at him.

_Don't worry_, they would say, _we are something else. Be strong, be strong._

The best nights were when he was able to go outside and watch the stars come out, as if they knew he was there and wanted to greet him on that lovely, fair-weather night. A strange feeling always rose within him when the first star of the evening winked into sight. He remembered asking his teacher at school which star was the first to come out, and she told him that it was the Dog Star, Sirius, the brightest star in the Canis Major constellation.

Half of what she had told him meant nothing, but over the years he would always smile when the Dog Star surfaced in the sky, gradually outshining everything else.

Now, as he looks up into that infinite space, he can pick out the Dog Star as easily as he ever could, and he allows a smile to grace his features once more. The smile is weak, slowly sliding into a grimace that is tainted with sorrow and longing, rather than coloured by joy from the past.

He isn't so sure how long he has been lying there, gazing up at the stars, but he no longer cares. There are so few points in his life that transcend absolute tranquility, and all he wants now to grasp that emotion for as long as he dares. Surely a life – albeit his, so twisted and frayed at the edges – deserves a deep breath of calm before the plunge. He isn't so sure just how many more _breaths_ he will be able to take, let alone deep ones.

He knows that it's getting late, and that he should probably sleep, but something tugs at him to stay awake, if only for a little while longer. The grass is too comfortable beneath him, the breeze is too refreshing, and the temperature is too nice, neither hot nor cold. For once there is no confusion or cacophony to cloud his thoughts, just the pleasant understanding that only three o'clock in the morning can bring; certainly the last time he had laid under the stars at such a time was an enlightening experience.

The mere thought sends memories clawing to the forefront of his thoughts, memories that he wishes would rather lay dormant: memories of _her_.

It wasn't that long ago, when he thinks about it; time, he has found, drags without her, making the days long and the nights even longer. Idly, he wonders if maybe this is the reason why he doesn't sleep anymore, resigned to tossing and turning, catching only glimmers of sleep to fuel him through the days ahead. He surprises himself with the thought that this is as close to the truth as anything else is these days.

Everything was so much more simple back when he was a child, he thinks wistfully. Yet maybe – the thought comes unbidden to him – there are benefits to complication.

He certainly knows of one particularly beautiful complication that he would rather have than be without, even if she is the cause of his erratic sleep patterns.

He remembered the tension that was high strung between them, palpable to everyone around them. No one knew why, exactly – neither he nor she had cared to divulge the contents of one of their more painful conversations, or their entire relationship, for that matter – but it was evident to everyone that something was wrong between the two.

He didn't want to ignore her, he thinks ruefully, but somehow that was exactly what he ended up doing. He hadn't known what to say, so in true form, he had said nothing at all. He thought it best at the time, and even now he isn't sure what else he could have done.

After all, it wasn't as though things hadn't righted themselves after a time.

It had been a hot summer, he remembers, and he doesn't sleep well in the heat. His elevation in the house, coupled with the unusually high nighttime temperatures, had caused him a restless night punctured by duvet covers sliding from his bed to the floor. Eventually he had sickened of the heat and wandered downstairs, in search of water or ground level or both.

What he hadn't expected to find was the back door opened, admitting a slight, but nonetheless refreshing, breeze into the first level of the house. As he moved to close it, red hair caught his eye – red hair that he would recognize anywhere.

Especially in his dreams.

He didn't stop to think about whether he should or shouldn't; he simply acted. He stepped out the door, making sure to make as little noise as possible lest he disturb her, and crossed over to where she lay, gazing upwards.

_Can I sit down?_ He asked, unwilling to intrude on her privacy. She didn't seem very surprised to see him there, and nodded her consent. There was an awkward silence for a moment as he shifted down and made himself comfortable. He looked at her, but her eyes were glued to the skies, and she refused to tilt her head in his direction.

_I_ – he didn't know what to say. _I never wanted things to be awkward between us – I mean, I wanted – I didn't – I never meant for all this, this tension…_

He couldn't find the words to say what he wanted, but she knew. She always knew. She filled in the blanks where he couldn't; that was how they were.

_I know_, she said, turning her head at last. _I've missed you._

He didn't respond the way he wanted to, because they were technically broken up, and hypocrisy is something he's always tried to avoid. He didn't really want to play by those rules, but he knew it would cause more problems if he didn't.

_I'm sorry_, he said, almost automatically.

There was only silence from her as she tilted her head back toward the stars, but he couldn't stop looking at her. Strands of hair were splayed across her face, so long and fine and elegant and completely unrestrained. He's never liked it when her hair is up; it always looks so better when it's wild and free and caught between his fingers. He almost reached out his hand to caress the line of her cheek, but he stopped himself just in time. Instead he contented himself to simply trace it with his eyes.

Suddenly she turns to look him square in the eye, only very briefly, as if to insure that his attention to focused with her, before she fixed her gaze once more on the heavens. He followed her example, absorbing the light that washed down from the sky.

_Do you ever wonder what sorts of stories stars have?_ She asked him. He turned his head toward her, but her jaw was set in the sort of way that he knew meant she was deliberately avoiding looking him in the eye. He looked back at the stars briefly.

_The constellations are stories,_ he said simply, determined to look at her despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that she wouldn't do the same.

_But there are other stories too, _she insisted, bringing up a hand to motion vaguely at the night sky. _Constellations are just pictures to help us remember fables. What about the wishes that we're told as children to make upon stars? Where do they go?_

Her voice had taken a slightly strained quality, almost as if she were holding back tears that were choking her. She fell silent abruptly, and turned away from him. He was motionless for a moment, thinking.

_Maybe they're just waiting to be fulfilled, _he said, looking away from her hunched figure. _And they will, I think. Maybe –_ he broke off, looking back at her. Her face was tilted ever so slightly in his direction. Taking this as a sign that she was listening, she continued.

Maybe they already are. And you just don't know it yet. 

She sat up abruptly, picking herself up off the ground in clumsy, hurried movements. She moved toward the house, but paused after a few steps. She turned back to where he still lay, propped up on his elbows, following her retreat. Hair now completely covered her face like a fine red veil, sticking to the tears on her cheeks. Her mouth trembled just a little, and her body heaved with the deep breaths she took.

But her eyes were fierce and determined, and he thought then that she was at her most beautiful just then, naked in emotion but still so strong.

_I'm sorry too,_ she said, her voice cracking at the end. She let out a half-hearted giggle, then sniffed and smiled at him. She walked backwards, her eyes locked with his, until she came to the back door. Then she turned and moved inside.

He flopped back on the grass, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He wasn't sure how long he lay out there, gazing up at the stars and grinning like an idiot.

A small smile flits across his face at the memory, and how happy he was then, but it disappears quickly. It's still to hard for him to forget the look that passed across her face when he told her he had to leave.

That was all he ever did, really. It never felt as if he were arriving anywhere; it was always that he was leaving somewhere else. He smiles bitterly at the irony of it all.

Suddenly he is sick of stars. He's sick of promises that he can't keep, sick of wishes that will never come true, sick of constellations he will never draw. He told her once that that they could draw their own constellation, a pattern in the stars that would reflect their story. He wants to obscure the stars so that they can no longer tell anyone's story or retain anyone's wishes.

If he could do that, maybe he wouldn't feel as terrible as he did now.

Still, he muses, there's always the future. It's an ever-changing, uncertain thing – but it's there. As long as there's a future, there's hope.

He will return to her, and they will lie out at night under the stars and trace their very own constellation, despite his feelings in the past. He will have grown up since then, and changed his views on the world, and will have learnt to appreciate everything before him. Of, course, he will favour the stars in their constellation above all others in the sky.

But he will make sure that Sirius in one of the stars connected to them.

The dawn is beginning to creep up over the horizon, and the stars begin to flit away from the light. He starts slightly, realising that he's had no sleep yet. Somehow, he isn't tired yet, but he knows that he will be later, enough to sleep the whole night through. Something about that thought saddens him slightly.

She will see him through her window as he walks up to her house, and they will embrace like the lovers that they're supposed to be. It will just be the two of them, in that moment, without the world interfering for once. They both will know that the time will approach when they must part, but for the moment they will enjoy just being together.

He grins. Maybe, today, he'll make a detour home.

She _is_ home.


End file.
